


Benediction

by sheafrotherdon



Series: Farm in Iowa Apocrypha. [14]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-23
Updated: 2006-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost the end. ~600 words</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benediction

In the end the sun shone, a quirk of happenstance that had John palm his hip in frustration, reaching for the comforting weight of a gun he hadn't worn in more than thirty years.

"His favorite kind of day," Finn said low, coming up to stand beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder as they both stared out of the kitchen window, eyeing the long, rolling fields sewn with September gold.

John closed his eyes and nodded once. "Yeah," he managed, voice clipped and short. And wasn't that the irony – that despite every shard of Californian, sharp-edged derision that Rodney had thrown against the world, it was the yawning spill of an autumn day, corn against a sky so blue it stretched beyond comprehension, that could make him smile in recognition of home.

"You ready?"

John opened his eyes again, felt every one of his years settle like a weight upon his heart. "As I'll ever be," he offered, setting down his coffee cup. He looked at his son, broad in shoulder just like Rodney, smiling a cautious version of that same crooked smile. "You?"

"No," Finn managed.

John nodded, understanding, reached to squeeze his arm. "Best not keep anyone waiting."

"Dad – "

John closed his eyes again, just for a second. "Finn, we – "

"We can keep 'em waiting. If you need time to – "

"I've had my time," John broke in. "With him." He set his jaw. "Nothing to savor in time without." He turned toward the door, brisk as he could manage, trying to leave the hollow places behind.

The service was short, no flowery sermons or long-winded remembrances, no oversized photograph of Rodney's face. There were pictures drawn by his grandkids pinned up in the foyer of the church, a mess of store-bought ditch lilies on the casket, and more people crammed into the pews than John could bear. He stared out of the window as brief words were offered for the living, as Finn shared memories in a voice that only broke twice. It didn't seem real – seemed impossible that if he turned his head he wouldn't find Rodney beside him, tapping his foot in impatience at even the barest nod toward religion, eyes still a brilliant, mocking blue despite the years that had stolen the rest of his hair, softened his stomach, creased his face with gentle lines.

John thought he could stand it, remain apart, buffered by better memories – thought it until they gathered to watch the casket be lowered into the ground. He swallowed, struggling with the vicious pain that rose up in his chest, turned his head toward Finn - a tight, unhappy motion. "I told him once," he confessed, voice hoarse, "that I didn't . . . " He tried to catch his breath. "Know how to do this on my own anymore." He couldn't watch. "That was _years_ ago, but - ."

Finn's face was damp as he cupped a hand at his father's elbow, held him steady until the earth was tamped down and everyone else was gone. "Dad," he murmured.

John looked up into a sky that seemed maybe, possibly, wide enough to hold Rodney McKay in whatever form he had now. He felt the pull and strain of muscles grown old, bones grown frail, bound up in a height that deceived. "I can't do this on my own," he whispered again, bent his head and wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket, wished with all his heart for home.


End file.
